Dear Sis
by Frankie McStein
Summary: Hawkeye needs desperatly to talk. Who does he choose? His sister of course!


Disclaimer- If I owned them, don't you think I'd leave out the disclaimer?  
  
  
I made the mistake of watching the beginning of Abyssinia Henry, something I said I wasn't going to do for a long while, and this is the result.  
This is my first M*A*S*H fic so please be kind. Remember, flames are for steaks, not reviews. If you don't like, tell me why so I can fix it.  
  
  
Dear Sis,  
At this present moment in time, I'm sitting outside the Swamp listening to music playing of the P.A. It's classical so you probably wouldn't be interested! It could do you good though you know, you sounded a little stressed in your last letter. I know a few tunes that I guarantee will pit you to sleep. And if they don't work I'll get Frank to make a tape of himself speaking on any subject and send you that. 5 minutes is the camp record at the moment. I'm hoping that enough coffee will enable me to beat it... someday. All I can say is it's a good job he doesn't talk too long in surgery.  
  
Radar is famous for once telling a General that we only sleep on duty, but if Frank takes it in to his head to start expounding on anything in particular then that would almost defiantly become a literal truth!  
  
Any way, more about what going on here later.  
  
I truly am sorry about the mix up. How was I supposed to know that scarf wasn't a blanket? I suppose the tassels at both ends may have given it away if I'd been awake enough to notice; I think Trapper did say something about it though.   
  
I tried putting round my neck as soon as I got your letter, but I had to roll it over so often that it stuck out further than my face. In actual fact, it look a lot like I had folded over my blanket and wrapped it round my head.  
  
Either way, it was a beautiful gesture. It looks great and however I wear it it keeps me warm. Klinger wants me to ask if you would be willing to knit him a sweater. Something feminine and fashionable, preferably in blue. I would send you the measurements, but I know you don't like feeling restricted by numbers.  
  
Anyway, back to the camp.   
  
I don't want to write to Dad about this yet, it's still too fresh I guess, but I have to talk about to someone about it. By now I'm guessing you've got my letter telling you all about Henry being discharged. Well, Radar walked in to OR today and told us that his plane had been shot down over the Japanese sea. There were no survivors.  
  
That phrase is echoing in my head. Has been for a while now.  
  
I don't think it will have reached the papers yet, in fact I don't know if he will be directly mentioned even when it does. But it's thrown us all right out of it.  
  
We held a memorial service as soon as we could and everybody was there. I think it would have made him really proud if he could see just how much he meant to us all. A lot of people, male and female were crying openly, and a few, like Margaret, were trying to hide it. And this is what I really want to talk to you about.  
  
I didn't cry. I couldn't cry. I thought about it, that Henry was dead, that I was never going to see hear from him again, but I didn't feel a thing. He may as well have been just another nameless kid who was DOA for all I felt.   
  
That man was my friend, a damn good friend, and I've cried for lost friends before. But no matter how much I thought about it, I didn't feel a thing for Henry. Just a vague disgust at the war for having needlessly taken another life.  
  
Do you think I need to talk with Sidney? He specialises in war related mental problems. Not that he has much of a choice in the matter.  
  
It's not the same as when Mum died, not by a long way. After she left I was numb, completely. I've never told you this but I took it a lot harder than everyone seems to think. I blocked out every emotion to such an extent that physical pain was the only thing I could feel, and yes, I did purposely let myself feel it.  
  
Before you start blaming yourself for not noticing, I have to tell you that no-one noticed. Your being my sister just means that it's easier for me to hide stuff from you.   
  
I think that's the main reason why I became a doctor.  
  
Not hiding things from you, but going through that much pain. I wanted to be able to help people who were hurt, but didn't think I could pass as a psychiatrist, so I decided to deal with the physical manifestations instead. That's not particularly well expressed, but I think you can guess what I mean. Of course over time my medical interests matured.  
  
But none of this is what I really need to talk about. My point, lost and bewildered as it now is, is that Henry's death doesn't seem to have evoked any reaction from me. I'm carrying on as normal. I laugh and I feel happy. I hear choppers and I get irritated.   
  
I think of Henry and I feel nothing.  
  
Although, now I'm properly thinking about it in order to write to you about it, I am getting a little angry. He was so excited at going home. The call he made to his wife was possible the most touching thing I've ever heard. He told them he would be back in just a few days.   
  
And as we were picturing him getting smothered by his family at the airport, he was plunging towards the sea.  
  
I wonder if he saw it? I hope not. I hope to a God I no longer seem to have any faith in that he was asleep, or unconscious, or drunk, or something.  
  
I don't want to think about it. I can see him sitting in the plane, staring out of the window as the ocean came rushing up to meet him.  
  
Surely he could have been saved? There must have been time to offer advice in some language. Or maybe there was just time for him to say a quick good-bye to his family; his wife, his little girls, his son.  
  
He shouldn't have died. He was free. He was going home to where his family was waiting for him. There were all so happy. It's the worst thing this war has done so far. To take such a good man and to take him at such a time.  
  
I don't think I was right earlier. When I said I wasn't blocking it out. I was, I was just being more selective then before.  
  
Thanks sis  
  
Ever yours, regardless of what may happen.  
Hawkeye.


End file.
